


Call it an Accident

by Blackpearl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-18
Updated: 2012-03-18
Packaged: 2017-11-02 03:42:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 16,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackpearl/pseuds/Blackpearl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The mysterious death of a man in Devon causes Sherlock, John and Lestrade to be summoned down South. Is it an accident, or is it murder?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dartmouth, Devon, 7:13am

It was just a normal day in late October; the sky was grey and bleak, and a bitter wind whistled through the quiet streets. The small beach located next to Dartmouth Castle was almost deserted, save for a few early morning dog walkers. An old man in his early sixties, wrapped in a thick duffel coat and with a dark blue hat covering his sparse grey hair hummed a pleasant tune as he followed his black Labrador alongside the breaking waves. His dog stopped and began to sniff at something on the sand. As the man drew nearer, he saw that it was a watch, and a broken one at that, for he saw that the silver clasp was missing. Someone must have lost it, thought the man, picking it up with calloused fingers. He flipped it over and saw the initials A.D had been engraved into the back of it. The man slipped it into his pocket with the intention of taking it to the local police station later. 

*

221B Baker Street, London, 9:07am

Sherlock Holmes sat in his favourite armchair, newspaper unfolded in his lap and a mug of steaming tea in his right hand. Although it was still relatively early in the morning, he was, as usual, already dressed in one of his many perfectly ironed black suits and a crisp, dark purple shirt. In the kitchen, his flatmate John Watson bustled around, making himself some toast for breakfast and trying to clear away the remnants of their Chinese take-away that they had eaten the night before. The sound of the fridge closing and then a sigh. 

“Sherlock, why are there severed fingers in an old pickle jar in the fridge?” 

Sherlock nonchalantly took a sip of his slowly cooling tea whilst he considered his response. “I’m investigating how well they will preserve.” 

John opened his mouth to reply with some scathing remark, but conceded that he would not win against Sherlock, and so closed his mouth again. He buttered his toast, picked up his tea and moved over to the sofa. “Anything from Lestrade?” 

Sherlock shook his head. “No, nothing.” 

John groaned inwardly; there was nothing worse than a bored Sherlock. His refusal to do anything pleasant or even remotely useful usually drove John to madness, and to the pub so that he could sit in the corner and drown his sorrows with a few pints of lager. He was just resigning himself to the fact that tonight was going to be another of those nights when Sherlock’s phone rang. The two flatmates shared a glance. Icy blue eyes bored into warm brown. It was Lestrade calling. 

“Hello,” said Sherlock, placing his newspaper to one side and leaning forwards in his seat in anticipation. A puzzled expression flitted over his chiselled features as he listened to Lestrade’s words. “Okay,” he said, before ending the call. 

“Well? Do we have a case?” John wasn’t sure if he was so eager because he was genuinely excited to have a case, or because it meant that his flatmate was not going to become even more insufferable than usual. 

“He’s coming over to talk to us about something important. He said to pack a bag each.”

“A bag? So we’re going somewhere then?”

“Obviously.” 

John finished eating his toast, gulped down the last of his tea and went into his room to locate a bag of some kind. He eventually dug out an old holdall and carefully began to place his things in it, not really paying attention to exactly what he was packing as his mind was more occupied with where they could be going and why. 

Someone, presumably Lestrade knocked on the door to their flat, and John heard Sherlock pass his room to meet him. He decided that he should probably follow too, and so made his way back into the living room. Lestrade was standing by the door and Sherlock stood opposite him, arms folded, already wearing his coat and scarf with a bag at his feet.  
“Are you both ready?” Lestrade asked, as John joined the two of them. 

“Almost, let me just go and finish and I’ll be right with you.” John hurriedly returned to his room and finished packing his bag, re-joining them a few moments later. “Okay, I’m all set. Where are we going?” 

“Devon,” replied Sherlock, handing John his coat with one hand and picking up his own bag with the other. 

“Right,” replied John. “Why?”

Sherlock ushered him out of the flat and closed the door behind him. “Lestrade will explain properly once we get into the taxi. Come on John, we have to go. We’ve got a case!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mysterious death of a man in Devon causes Sherlock, John and Lestrade to be summoned down South. Is it an accident, or is it murder?

Half an hour later and the three men were sat on the train to Devon. Sherlock had insisted on a table seat and so presently sat next to the window, arms folded across his chest and his feet resting on the empty seat opposite him. John sat to his left, and Lestrade was opposite John. Both men sat in mirrored positions, arms resting on the table, one leg crossed over the other. 

The train began to pull away from the station and Sherlock let his eyes flutter closed. Lestrade had explained the case in the taxi to Paddington station: the body of a man had been found floating in the sea at Dartmouth, but the last time the man had been seen was on a boat in Paignton harbour. It was a Detective Inspector friend of Lestrade of who had called him from Paignton that morning asking if, perhaps, Lestrade would be willing to ask the famous Sherlock Holmes to travel down and assist them with an investigation. Why, Lestrade had asked, would then need Sherlock’s help for a body in the water? The answer had simply been that it was significantly more complicated than that, but that it would be explained to them when they arrived. 

Behind his closed eyes, Sherlock’s mind buzzed. Shapes, colours, letters and numbers all flashed through the darkness, forming incomplete thoughts and sentences. John and Lestrade were talking in low voices: John asked how he knew the Detective Inspector in Paignton. 

“We trained together and kept in touch,” was the reply. 

They lapsed into silence again; Sherlock still had his eyes closed, apparently trying to solve the case before even arriving at their destination. John glanced sideways at Sherlock, noticing the tension in his forehead as he frowned, and the slight twitch in his lips as he seemingly muttered something to himself. 

“Fancy a game of cards, John?” Lestrade asked, producing a Bicycle brand pack from inside his jacket pocket and placing it on the table. 

“Sure,” replied John, shifting in his seat so that he was more comfortable. 

Sherlock opened his eyes and sat up. “Count me in too.” 

John raised an eyebrow. “You know that you’ll win every time. Won’t it be boring for you?” 

“Of course it will be, but it will be less boring than staring out of the window for the next four hours.” 

Lestrade shrugged and began to shuffle the cards. “Cheat?” 

Sherlock chuckled. “Yes, let’s see who has the best poker face, shall we?” 

John sighed, knowing full well that he was going to become unbearably smug once he won game after game. Sure enough, half an hour later, Sherlock’s grin had been growing more and more pronounced. Both John and Lestrade knew that they had never had a chance at winning, but they both had inwardly hoped that maybe Sherlock would be kind this time. They were both wrong. Sherlock had spared them no mercy, calling out their lies only a split second after they had been said, and becoming increasing self-satisfied as he did so. It was strange, John thought as Lestrade haughtily packed away the cards, it was almost as though Sherlock needed the praise or disbelief of others in order to work. Would he be as infuriating if people acted like they weren’t amazed with his skills? No, Sherlock would know that it was impossible for anyone to not be impressed. John pulled a book out of his bag and settled down to read. Opposite him, Lestrade had shoved his headphones into his ears and was fiddling with his phone whilst tapping the beat of the music with his right foot. Sherlock returned to gazing aimlessly out of the window, but he tired of it quickly, and so turned to stare at the people around them, deducing their jobs and life stories and telling them to John in a never-ending tirade of murmured information. Unable to stop Sherlock from talking, he reluctantly put his book away and allowed him to continue talking. It was going to be a long journey. 

*

1:58pm, Paignton Train Station

Sherlock, John and Lestrade – or Greg, as John was now addressing him – exited the train station and paused to take in their surroundings. Beside them was a taxi rank, filled with normal cars with taxi stickers on them, quite unlike the distinctive black cabs that filled London’s streets. Across the road was a convenience store and, next to that, the bus station. Sherlock looked around, distaste evident on his face. It was so quiet here, so few people compared to London, he thought. John, meanwhile, was more preoccupied with where they would be staying. 

“Apparently there’s a row of B&B’s along the seafront,” replied Lestrade, pulling a map out of his pocket. 

“This place is hardly big enough to get lost in,” Sherlock said. “Do you really need a map?” 

Lestrade chose not to reply, instead beckoning them to follow him with a wave of his hand. John looked at Sherlock reproachfully as they followed him, but said nothing.  
They walked along past the taxi rank, over the railway tracks and down a cramped two way road which was filled with tacky tourist shops and fish and chip ‘restaurants’. Further down the road was a row of arcades; bright lights flashing and loud music playing. Sherlock was fascinated. John allowed him a few minutes to explore and create various methods of how best to play a certain game, before forcefully pulling him away by the sleeve of his coat. 

Eventually they found their way to the seafront, suddenly overwhelmed by the smell of salt and seaweed, and the sound of the waves crashing onto the sand, and seagulls flying overhead. There was a row of multi-coloured hotels and B&B’s facing the sea, and it took them a while to find one that still had the vacancies sign up. Standing outside the red and yellow façade of the ‘The Commodore’, John took one last look out towards the sea before heading into it. Lestrade approached the main desk and rang the bell. A few minutes later, a middle-aged man dressed in casual slacks came out. 

“Hi, I wondered if you had three single rooms for a couple of nights?” Lestrade said. 

The man pushed his glasses further up his nose as he checked the book. “You don’t know how many nights you’ll be staying for?” 

Lestrade shook his head. “No, we’re down here on police business and we don’t know how long it will take.” 

“Well, I’ve got one single and one twin room free for another three weeks…” 

Sherlock approached the front desk. “We’ll take those rooms, thank you very much. John and I can have the twin room.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mysterious death of a man in Devon causes Sherlock, John and Lestrade to be summoned down South. Is it an accident, or is it murder?

John could do nothing except stare at Sherlock, mouth slightly agape, as he led the way upstairs to the room which they would be sharing. Sherlock opened the door and propped it open with his elbow whilst he waited for John to catch up. 

“Sherlock,” John said, lingering in the doorway, “Why did you say we’d share a room? I’m sure there were other places we could have tried.”

“You know as well as I that it took us long enough to find a place with any vacancies at all. We really can’t afford to waste time with such trivial things as accommodation, so I made a decision in the interests of the case.” A pause. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“It’s not really you though, is it?” Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow at him and John elaborated. “I mean that you’re always so private at home; I thought you would want separate rooms here.”

“As I said before: trivial.” Sherlock nudged him into the room and chucked his bag onto the bed nearest the door. “When they said ‘twin’ room I assumed that both beds would be singles.” His eyes flickered around the room, taking in the double bed over by the window, the single bed in front of him, the pale blue wallpaper and darker blue carpet, the small bathroom… “You can take the double,” he said to John. “It’s not like I sleep much anyway.”

John thought it best not to argue and so began to unpack his clothes, hanging up his shirts, jumpers and trousers in the wardrobe provided, and placing his socks and underwear in one of the drawers. After a while of John telling Sherlock that he really should do the same, he eventually gave in, and soon Sherlock’s perpetually immaculate suits hung alongside John’s checked shirts and woollen jumpers. 

Someone knocked on the door to their room and John went over to open it. Lestrade walked in with a comment of “Nice room.”

Sherlock was sitting on his bed, hands folded in his lap. “I assume the reason you’re here is because we’re about to go somewhere. Presumably to see the body.”

Lestrade nodded. “My, err, friend is waiting outside ready to collect us. Are we good to go?”

“Of course,” said Sherlock, while John pocketed his wallet, phone and the room key.

They left the room and made their way downstairs. 

“Is everything alright?” The man at reception asked. 

“Yes, perfect,” replied Lestrade. “We have to head out, but there’s a chance that we could be returning late. I don’t suppose you have a spare key or something for the front door? We wouldn’t want to disturb you by ringing the bell.” 

For a brief moment, the man looked startled, but then he began to rummage around in the drawers in his desk. “Normally we request that our guests return to the B&B by 11pm, but as you’ve already said that it’s police business, I’ll make an exception.” He handed Lestrade a key attached to a gold chain. 

“How do you know that we’re not just pretending to be with the police?” John asked uncertainly. 

The man smiled. “Because I saw DI Lestrade’s ID card when he opened his wallet earlier.”

Sherlock smirked. 

*

As they made their way outside to the waiting police car, John’s eyes landed on a woman standing next to it. She was tall, slender, and with long, toned legs. Her hair was dark blonde, shoulder length and straight, and she had piercing blue eyes. She was dressed smartly in a black pencil skirt and matching suit jacket and a pale blue shirt teemed with black heels. 

As they approached her, she moved towards Lestrade, and greeted him with a kiss on the cheek. 

“Greg, so good to see you again,” she said. 

She was younger than John had expected her to be, given that she had supposedly trained with Lestrade. 

“Rebecca, this is Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. You two, this is Rebecca Brown.” Lestrade introduced them, and they shook each other’s hands. 

Sherlock noticed John staring at her and felt an unfamiliar feeling twinge in his stomach. It wasn’t hunger and it wasn’t nausea, so what was it? Guilt? No… Sadness? Nope… Jealousy. Yes, that was it. But why? Hmm. Sherlock observed John again, the tightness in his stomach increasing as he saw him and Rebecca laughing about something. Then he turned around, and his eyes found Sherlock’s. He moved away from Rebecca to stand next to him.

“Is everything okay?” He asked. 

Sherlock gave a non-committal nod. “The reason why she’s so much younger than Lestrade is because he joined the force and did his training quite late.”  
John ran a hand through his short, light brown hair. “And how did you know that? Was it the colour of her shoes, or the way Greg does his tie?” His voice dripped with sarcasm. 

“No, actually,” Sherlock replied, and John braced himself for the usual rapid string of deductions, but it never came. “It was one of the first things Lestrade ever told me about himself.”

They looked at each other for a moment, John wandering if Sherlock was actually telling the truth or not, and Sherlock wondering why he always felt so much calmer when John was in close proximity to him. The moment was ruined when an impatient Lestrade dragged them over to the police car by their arms and shoved them into the back.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mysterious death of a man in Devon causes Sherlock, John and Lestrade to be summoned down South. Is it an accident, or is it murder?

Rebecca drove them to Torbay Hospital so that they could investigate the body, which was being held in the morgue. The drive took about half an hour, with most of the time spent trying to get through the endless one-way road systems. Lestrade and Rebecca chattered away happily in the front of the car while an uncomfortable silence persisted between Sherlock and John in the back. Once they arrived, they got out of the car and followed Rebecca into the hospital. An attendant led them down to the morgue and wheeled the body out for them. Once the attendant had gone, Rebecca spoke.

“One of the main reasons we wanted you down here is because of the nature of the case.” She indicated the cadaver. “Adriano De Luca. Real name: Amato Dicello.”

“What?” said John. 

“Dicello was an Italian police officer who was working undercover in Dartmouth Naval College. Now we know that he was investigating something, but we don’t know what.”

“Have you spoken the Italian police?” Lestrade asked. 

Rebecca nodded. “They’re being extremely uncooperative at the moment. She sighed, and then continued explaining. “His body was found in the sea at Dartmouth by a trawler man who spotted something unusual from his boat. The last time Dicello was seen was during naval college training on a boat in Paignton harbour. There’s absolutely no way that the tide could have moved him from there to Dartmouth.” 

Sherlock began to lean over the body, peering intently and making a mental list of everything he saw. Olive-skinned, dark hair, definitely Italian, then. Toned body, visible arm and stomach muscles, so he kept himself fit. Calloused fingers and grazed knuckles; consistent with his cover story. Indentations on his left wrist, very similar to those which arose from wearing a watch. Yes, it had to be a watch. Sherlock had often observed the same marks on John’s wrist after a long day of wearing a watch that was slightly too tight. 

“He was wearing a watch. Where is it?” Sherlock asked, straightening up. 

Rebecca looked startled. “I beg your pardon?” 

“A watch,” he repeated. “He has marks on his wrist from wearing a watch.”

“He wasn’t wearing one when he was found,” she replied. “But I’ll go and call some people.” She turned on her black, patent heels and left them in the morgue.   
“What else do you see, Sherlock?” Lestrade asked as resumed inspecting Dicello’s body. 

“Bruises on the ribs and a few on the legs…” he said, more to himself than to Lestrade. “Gives the impression that he’s been dragged or knocked against something… John, what would you say the cause of death was?”

John moved over to the body, as always, in awe of Sherlock’s deductions. He examined it, pressing gently on the dead man’s chest, checking the colour of his skin, checking his neck for any marks before he was absolutely sure of his diagnosis. 

“Well,” he began tentatively. “There’s water in his lungs, but he didn’t drown.” 

Sherlock had drawn away from the body and was watching John with measured interest. “So, what’s the cause of death?” 

“Asphyxiation. Not strangulation because there are no tell-tale marks on his neck, so I’d probably go for smothering or something similar.”

Sherlock smiled smugly to himself as Rebecca re-entered the room. 

“What have you got?” she asked. 

“He didn’t drown; he was killed by smothering beforehand then thrown in the water to dispose of the body,” replied Sherlock, approaching the door. 

“Most people seem to think that it was an accident,” Rebecca said cautiously. 

Sherlock turned to face her, one hand still resting on the door handle. John saw the familiar gleam of self-assured arrogance flash in his eyes. “Most people are usually wrong. Call it an accident if you want, but you wouldn’t have summoned me here if you really believed that. I am telling you that this is murder, which means that there is more to this case than you previously thought. Now, what about his watch?”

Rebecca looked absolutely astonished. “Oh, umm, there was one handed in to Dartmouth police station on the day that Dicello’s body was found.”

“Brilliant!” Sherlock exclaimed, enthusiasm leaking onto his normally sombre face. “We have to go and look at it immediately.” 

Lestrade opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock was already gone. John shrugged at Lestrade before following after him eagerly. 

“Yeah,” Lestrade said to Rebecca. “He does that.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mysterious death of a man in Devon causes Sherlock, John and Lestrade to be summoned down South. Is it an accident, or is it murder?

The atmosphere in the car on the drive to Dartmouth was significantly different to how it had been previously. Rebecca was still amazed and confused with Sherlock’s deductions; Lestrade was attempting to make conversation and failing dramatically; John felt much happier knowing that he had identified exactly what Sherlock had hoped he would, and Sherlock was practically quivering with excitement at the new developments on the case. 

John chanced a sideways look at his flatmate, finding him staring out of the car window, thoughts obviously tumbling around in his exceedingly active mind. John always felt more comfortable, lighter, when he knew that Sherlock was involved in a case. He had a look in his icy blue eyes that seemed to scream the fact that he was enjoying it, perhaps too much, John thought. He remembered Sally Donovan’s comment of “He gets off on it” the first night John had ever accompanied Sherlock on a case, and dwelled on her words for a while, before the halting of the car jolted him out of his thoughts. 

They made their way to the police station, where an officer showed them the watch. Sherlock carefully picked it up and turned it over in his gloved fingers. “Did you say that Dicello’s body was discovered by a trawler boat?” 

“Yes,” replied Rebecca. “Mr Holmes, wha-?”

“Sherlock, please, and just give me a minute.” He held up one hand, indicating silence. After a few minutes, he said, “The clasp on this watch has quite obviously broken. What if when Dicello was dumped into the sea at Paignton, the clasp got caught on the trawler net and his body was dragged to Dartmouth? That would explain the bruises and the water in his lungs. The clasp broke, the watch came off his wrist, and his body floated up to the surface where it was spotted. The watch wasn’t quite heavy enough to sink and it ended up washed up on the beach where it was discovered by someone who just happened to be passing by.” His fingers traced the engraved letters of A.D. “Amato Dicello, it all fits: the shape and size of the watch match with the marks on his wrist. This is definitely correct.”

“How can you be so sure?” Rebecca asked, her hands placed firmly on her hips. John observed that she really did have an incredible figure. 

Sherlock shot her a scathing look. “It all makes perfect sense. How much more proof do you need?” He noticed John staring at Rebecca again and his eyes narrowed, the unwanted jealously stirring deep within him once again, like a monster slowly unfurling itself and straining to break free. Sherlock gritted teeth, determined not to say anything to John. Emotions were just another one of the many things he deleted. Pointless. Unnecessary. 

“I think that will do for today. I’ll get on to the Italian police and try and persuade them to tell me what Dicello was investigating,” said Rebecca. “You’ve had a long day. I’ll take you back to Paignton, you can get something to eat, have a decent sleep and then you can get a taxi to the police station for, say, 9 in the morning? Then we can continue with the investigation.” 

Lestrade agreed and they made their way back to the car.

*

About an hour and half later found Sherlock, John and Lestrade in the Wetherspoon’s restaurant called ‘Talk of the Town’; located on the busy tourist-targeting road that they had walked down on their search for a place to stay. The restaurant wasn’t too busy, although the bar part of it was definitely heaving. John struggled to push his way through to place their food order. He had demanded that Sherlock ate something, as he was fully aware that his friend hadn’t had a single bite to eat all day. Sherlock had put up an admirable fight, but gave up as soon as Lestrade sided with John, and finally ordered a chicken Caesar salad. 

John placed their order, paid for their food on Sherlock’s credit card, and summoned Lestrade over to help him carry their drinks back. John had a pint of Carlsberg lager, Lestrade a pint of Bays bitter – complaining that they didn’t have any London pride – and Sherlock had a large glass of merlot. Both John and Lestrade rolled their eyes when Sherlock took a sip and said immediately that it wasn’t what he wanted and that it tasted wrong because it came from a screw top bottle instead of a corked one. The conversation was pleasant, although it mostly involved John and Lestrade, with Sherlock preferring to sit in silence and think over the case. Their meals arrived, and Sherlock pushed at his salad dismissively, ignoring the fact that his two companions had begun to devour their steaks with rabid enthusiasm. He eventually ate his meal, although he mostly only did it to pacify John, who always worried over the fact that he ate barely anything. 

Lestrade bought a few rounds of drinks, and Sherlock found his thoughts becoming increasingly harder to make sense of. He started to join in with the conversation, and all three men were surprised at his sudden interest in the latest football scores. Sherlock had never been one for drinking, and he was soon feeling pleasantly happy and ever so slightly dizzy. 

It was about 9 o’clock when they finally left the restaurant, the train journey that morning already feeling like a lifetime away. Sherlock embarrassingly had to hold onto John’s arm as they walked back to the B&B, and he inwardly cursed himself for continuing to drink. Upon their return, John escorted Sherlock upstairs and ensured that he got ready for bed without injuring himself or breaking anything. By the time John had got changed and brushed his teeth, Sherlock was fast asleep in his bed. John made a mental note to ply him with wine if he ever wanted him to shut up in the future. He set his alarm for 7am; enough time for them both to shower and grab some breakfast and curled up in the centre of his double bed. With the distant sound of the sea and Sherlock’s deep, slow breathing, John soon drifted off to sleep as well.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mysterious death of a man in Devon causes Sherlock, John and Lestrade to be summoned down South. Is it an accident, or is it murder?

John was dreaming, he was sure of it. A warm body pressed against his; long legs entwined themselves with his own. Rebecca? No, the body felt wrong. Warm, gentle hands slid up his chest to his neck, brushing against his jaw, the ghost of lips on his. Then, quite suddenly, hot passionate kisses replaced the ghosting lips. John recognised those lips; was marginally embarrassed to admit that he had sometimes dreamt of what it would feel like to kiss them.

_Sherlock._

The name escaped from him like a wisp of smoke. He heaved a pleasant sigh. The kisses continued, fervent and demanding. As quickly as they had started, they stopped. The light pressure of their tangled legs faded away. The warmth of the other body dissolved, and the gentle hands vanished.

John opened his eyes. It had been a dream. He rolled over onto his side and checked the time. 6:50am; ten minutes until his alarm went off. His mind raced and his heart pounded inside his chest. The dream was all too memorable, and more importantly, why had he dreamt of kissing Sherlock? They were best friends and he would do anything for his admittedly slightly sociopathic flatmate, and he inwardly hoped that Sherlock would do the same for him. John knew that he cared for Sherlock, that much was obvious…but he couldn't be attracted to him, could he?

John had always considered himself to be straight; despite the fact that all of his previous relationships hadn't worked particularly well, initially because he hadn't been emotionally attached enough, but more recently the failures in his love life had been to do with the man currently sleeping in the same room as him. Then again, Sherlock certainly was something else. He was an exception compared to any person that John had ever met. Maybe he could be the exception to his thus far heterosexual love life, he thought, but quickly drove the thought away.

He propped himself up and looked over at the sleeping consulting detective. He lay on his left side, so John could see his face. Sherlock's head rested on his left arm, and his right stretched out in front of him, elegant fingers splayed out on the white sheet. The duvet was pulled up right over his shoulder, and John could see a glimpse of his feet poking out of the bottom of the duvet. Damn the man was tall. The expression on his face was more peaceful and relaxed than John had ever seen before, and his skin, framed by his dark, unruly curls, looked as white as fresh snow in the early morning light.

The alarm on John's phone went off very loudly, and he almost jumped out of his skin at the intrusion. He reached for his phone and quickly turned it off. Sherlock groaned and pulled the duvet right over his head, bringing his knees up to his chest as he did so.

"Morning, Sherlock," said John brightly, though he felt far from it.

"Morning," came the muffled reply. Sherlock's voice was deep and raspy from sleep. He sat up, stretching and running a hand through his sleep-dishevelled hair. He leant back against the headboard, rubbing his eyes in an attempt to wake himself up. "Mind if I shower first?"

John shook his head, welcoming the idea of spending a little longer in bed. "Not at all."

Sherlock swung his legs over the side of the bed and got to his feet. John couldn't help but notice that his pyjama trousers sat relatively low on his narrow hips. Sherlock padded over to the wardrobe, selecting his clothes and then disappearing into the bathroom. John lay back down in bed, his head spinning.

Fifteen minutes later and Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, dressed in light grey trousers and a dark blue shirt. His hair was even darker than usual with the dampness of the water, and droplets ran down his face, following the chiselled lines of his jaw. John stared and immediately regretted it: Sherlock had noticed.

"Sleep well?" John's attempt to distract Sherlock was so obvious it was practically transparent.

The hint of a smile tugged at the corners of Sherlock's mouth. "Yes, thank you. The wine probably helped."

"Yeah, you were pretty unsteady on your feet last night," laughed John.

Sherlock shrugged, nonplussed. "Lestrade was buying the drinks. I thought it would be rude to decline."

John rolled his eyes as he got out of his bed, picking his clothes for the day and then going into the bathroom. Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed and slipped on his shoes. He had woken up from a particularly unpleasant dream in which John married Rebecca to find his eyes felt like they were weighted down with lead, and his brain had felt distinctly fuzzy. The shower had helped, but Sherlock had caught John staring at him when he re-entered the room. John had tried to distract him, but Sherlock had already seen the dilation of his pupils and the faint blush on his cheeks. Not pronounced enough to be arousal, but definitely along those lines. Attraction? Sherlock pondered for a moment before deciding that it would definitely need further investigating.

They met Lestrade in the dining room for a full English cooked breakfast. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock didn't order anything, choosing instead to sip nonchalantly at a black coffee. John and Lestrade ate as much as they could, figuring that it was extremely unlikely that they would be stopping for a snack or lunch at any point that day. At quarter past eight, they returned to their rooms to brush their teeth and gather their belongings, and met in the car park a few minutes later. Lestrade had requested a taxi to drive them to the police station to meet Rebecca, and it appeared a few minutes later. The short journey passed mostly in silence, all three of the men lost in their own, very different thoughts.

When they arrived at the police station, Rebecca gestured for them to follow her into her office and take a seat. Her lips were pressed tight together, her hands clutching tensely at a file, which she placed on the table and slid across for the three men to look at it.

Sherlock seized it and scanned the pages. A low murmur of "Fantastic" rumbled from deep in his throat. John and Lestrade shared a puzzled glance.

"Dicello was killed because he was investigating money laundering through a restaurant," explained Sherlock. "Oh this just got exciting!"


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mysterious death of a man in Devon causes Sherlock, John and Lestrade to be summoned down South. Is it an accident, or is it murder?

Sherlock’s elation at the developments in the case was almost contagious. John found himself smiling fondly at his friend as he flicked through the file again.   
“Money laundering,” Sherlock murmured to himself, but John detected the barely supressed glee in his voice. 

Rebecca raised an eyebrow at John, but he ignored it and turned to Sherlock instead. “Is money laundering more or less exciting than murder?”

“Oh definitely less, but it’s still the best case we’ve had in weeks.” Sherlock handed the file to John so that he could look through it himself.

“What’s the name of the restaurant?” asked Lestrade, leaning forwards in his chair. 

“The Harbour Light restaurant,” replied Rebecca. “It’s actually only about a five minute walk from your B&B.”

Sherlock leant back in his seat, uncrossing and then re-crossing his legs. “We need to go to this restaurant and observe the people there; try and find out how and why they’re laundering money.”

Rebecca agreed, tucking a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “Unfortunately it doesn’t open until 6 o’clock in the evening, but I’ll phone up and book a table. What time is good for you?” 

“How about 7?” Lestrade suggested. “That gives time for other people to already be there so it’s not just us alone in a restaurant. We can probably get away with more investigating that way.” 

Sherlock nodded his approval. “We’ll go under the premise that we’re four friends meeting for dinner. I would recommend taking a gun though, just in case. If Dicello was killed because he was investigating the restaurant then it could be someone there who killed him.” He stood up and John followed suit. 

“Is there anything else we can do for you?” Lestrade inquired. 

Rebecca shook her head, smiling pleasantly and trying to catch John’s eye. Sherlock noticed that he deliberately avoided her gaze. Undeterred, she spoke, “No, thank you though. I’ve got a load of paperwork to sort through so you all might as well go off and have fun. I’ll call you if anything else comes up.”

They said their goodbyes and headed outside. 

“What now?” John leant back against a wall and basked in the October sunshine. It was surprisingly warm given the onset of winter, and although there was a bit of a breeze, it was not as bitterly cold as it had been in previous years. 

Sherlock wandered over to him and leant back against the wall beside him, fighting the urge to wrap an arm around his waist.

“Well we don’t have anything else to do, so why don’t we have a look around, maybe go over to Torquay or Brixham?” Lestrade offered, pulling his mobile out of his pocket to call a taxi. 

“What’s in either of those places?” John asked, sensing that it would probably fall to him to decide where they went and what they did. 

“Torquay is more of a place for shopping and is likely to be much busier; Brixham is smaller and a fishing town, generally popular for its picturesque views,” Sherlock replied, his eyes following the path of a passing by, no doubt deducing who the driver was and where they were going by the type of tyres and the style of driving.

John considered for a while. “Well, I don’t particularly fancy going shopping, so why don’t we head over to Brixham and grab a coffee then have a wander around?” 

The other two men agreed, the taxi arrived about five minutes later, and then they were on the way to Brixham. Once again, Lestrade sat in the front passenger seat, leaving John and Sherlock in the back. Sherlock was fiddling with his phone; texting by the sound of it. Mycroft? John’s phone buzzed: a message from Sherlock. Perhaps he wasn’t texting his older brother, then. 

_What were you thinking about this morning? I need to know._

John risked a glance at him; his face was expressionless, staring straight ahead, the fingers on his right hand tapping out an unknown rhythm on his right knee. 

_Nothing gets past you, does it? Honestly, I was thinking about you._

No point in lying to him, John thought. He’d know that his words weren’t the truth in seconds.

_I figured as much. But why were you thinking of me? Did you notice Rebecca trying to make a pass at you earlier, or were you just pretending not to?_

John took a moment to contemplate on his reply before composing it. 

_I did notice. I’m just not that interested. I…had a dream about you. I don’t know, Sherlock, my mind’s just been going off on one a bit recently._

Sherlock’s reply was almost instant. 

_Mine too._

They both looked up at the same time, their eyes met and Sherlock reached across the rest his hand on John’s leg. John flinched at first; he didn’t expect the sudden contact, but he quickly adjusted and it strangely didn’t feel odd or out of place at all. They smiled at each other. 

*

The taxi driver dropped them off in the main car park in Brixham. Lestrade paid their fare and the three of them headed up to the main road, where Sherlock had spotted a coffee shop called The Bay Coffee Co. They languidly made their way through the door, and glanced around at their surroundings: the café was large and spacious, with a row of two-seater tables running up the left-hand side and the main counter to the right. Ahead of them were a few stairs, leading to more tables and four leather sofas. John ordered and paid for their drinks whilst Sherlock and Lestrade occupied two of the sofas opposite each other. John joined them, sitting down beside Sherlock on the red sofa, facing towards the front of the café. Lestrade relaxed opposite them, picking up one of the many newspapers on the table between them. Sherlock inched closer to John as the man behind the counter brought their drinks over. 

“Sherlock, I think we need to have a chat later,” John muttered, taking a sip of his coffee.

Sherlock threw an anxious look at Lestrade, who was thankfully immersed in his newspaper. “You’re probably right.” 

They drank their coffees in a pleasant silence, listening to the background music playing in the café and the low hum of other people talking. After a while, Sherlock leant over to John and said in a low voice, “What can you tell me about that couple over there?” He indicated a young couple sat across from them. The girl leant back in her chair with her arms folded across her chest, and the boy had his palms facing upwards on the table between them. 

“Well they’re obviously a couple…” John began. “Although the girl has her arms as a barrier between them which suggests that she’s either trying to defend himself or block him out. Judging by her expression, she isn’t very happy.” He had become quite good at reading people’s body language by now, and Sherlock frequently tested him on it. “The boy is leaning forward, indicating that he wants to be close to her. His hands are facing upwards so he’s trying to express himself, or maybe he’s hoping that she’ll take hold of his hands… Either way, she’s not having any of it.” 

“Good, good,” Sherlock said approvingly. “Continue.” 

John spent a few seconds looking more closely at the unfolding scene in front of him. “They’ve both got drinks,” he said, noticing the two steaming mugs on the table. “But she hasn’t touched her; he bought it; he’s trying to apologise, so he’s obviously done something wrong…” He trailed off as he realised. “Oh, he cheated on her.” 

“Yes!” Sherlock exclaimed. “Absolutely spot on, well done John.” 

John felt a blush creeping into his cheeks the way it always did whenever Sherlock praised him. 

“Are you two quite finished?” Lestrade was looking at them with a bemused expression on his face. 

“Oh, yes,” John responded to Lestrade’s question. “Do you want to take a walk?”

They grabbed their coats and left the café, John still trying to calm his flushed cheeks, Sherlock still wanting to put his arm around John’s waist, and Lestrade wondering once again what the exact definition of Sherlock and John’s relationship was.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mysterious death of a man in Devon causes Sherlock, John and Lestrade to be summoned down South. Is it an accident, or is it murder?

Back at the B&B two hours later, John flopped down onto his bed and switched the television on, more than content to watch anything that was on for the remaining time between now and going to the restaurant at 7 o’clock. 

Cautiously, Sherlock moved over to him and sat on the edge of John’s bed. “John?”

“Hmm?” He looked up at the taller man, and was once again struck by the handsomeness of his features. 

“I feel that I should tell you than I know you’re developing feelings for me.” 

Suddenly John didn’t feel so relaxed. He pulled himself up into a sitting position, his heart hammering violently inside his ribcage. “How do you-?” 

Sherlock sighed like it was the most obvious thing in the world. John supposed that to him, it probably was. “The texts of course. I could practically hear your thoughts in the car.” 

The shame seeped through John like water through cloth; he could feel it covering his entire body, welling up deep inside him; coursing through his veins with every pump of his treacherous heart. 

“There’s no need to feel ashamed,” Sherlock continued, knowing exactly what John was feeling, as usual. “Because I’d be lying if I didn’t feel the same.”   
John’s heart leapt in his chest at his words. Slowly lifting his gaze from the floor, he found himself locked in a warped kind of staring competition with Sherlock; neither of them wanting to look away, breath hitching in the back of both their throats. John was surprised at just how much he could read in the other man’s face, as Sherlock was usually so detached, and so calculative of everything he said; of every flickering expression that crossed his face. He was a master of self-control. Now though, there was a wild kind of fire in his eyes that spoke volumes. Words were unnecessary: John could see the tenderness in his expression, the vulnerability mixed with desire in those captivating blue eyes. 

John leant forwards, his fingers knotting themselves into Sherlock’s dark curls as he pressed their lips together. Sherlock flinched away, but then drew closer again, parting his lips slightly as John deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue against Sherlock’s lower lip, tasting him, feeling the movement of their lips against each other. He heard Sherlock sigh and felt him moan against his mouth as John separated his lips with his tongue, exploring his mouth delicately, delirious with happiness and pleasure. 

Suddenly Sherlock pulled away, but placed his hands on top of John’s. “John… I, err.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t have any…experience in this sort of area.” 

“None at all?” John was surprised that someone as good-looking as Sherlock had absolutely no experience of relationships or sex, but, then again, it was Sherlock after all. Normal conventions of society and ideas of humanism didn’t exactly apply to him. 

Sherlock shook his head in response. “It never interested me. All I cared about was my work. But then I met you.” 

“You told me that you considered yourself married to your work.” 

“I barely knew you then, John.” He leant forward, the merest hint of desperation for John to understand leaking into his voice. “I assure that I want this; that I want you.”   
John closed his eyes, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s. “I want you too. It doesn’t bother me that you’re inexperienced.” 

“Because you’re probably more than experienced enough for the both of us?” 

John chuckled. “I wouldn’t say that, but I will say that as long as I have you, it doesn’t matter.” 

“Thank you,” Sherlock whispered, before cautiously angling his head to find John’s lips again. 

*

They spent the remainder of the afternoon lying together in John’s bed. The television stayed on, but neither of them paid attention to it, as they were both too preoccupied with the other. They didn’t go any further than just kissing; they both decided that it would be best to take their relationship - if it could be called that – slowly to begin with. They lay tangled together, limbs entwined, arms around each other, and with tenderly exploring hands as their insistent lips and searching tongues familiarised and learnt everything about the other person. They were both disappointed when they had to pull away from each other in order to get ready to go out. They both got changed: John into a clean pair of denim jeans, a plain white shirt and a grey suit jacket, and Sherlock into a black suit and purple shirt. At half past six, Lestrade knocked on their door and came into their room whilst John was in the bathroom brushing his teeth. Lestrade had changed his shirt – now blue and white pinstripes - but otherwise looked the same as he had earlier. John exited the bathroom to find them in the middle of a conversation about the case. Uninterested, he got his things together and waited for them to follow him out of the room. He led the way downstairs where Rebecca was already waiting. She had evidently dressed up: her purple skirt was a little shorter and her cream top was a little tighter than what they probably should have been. 

“Bright red lipstick and more noticeable eye makeup,” Sherlock muttered into his ear. “Obviously for your benefit.” 

John smiled. “Don’t worry; I’ll let her down gently.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mysterious death of a man in Devon causes Sherlock, John and Lestrade to be summoned down South. Is it an accident, or is it murder?

They walked towards the restaurant with a brisk pace, pulling their coats tighter around them against the bitter wind that had suddenly picked up. The sky was still as cloudless and clear as it had been earlier, except now it was littered with sparkling stars. John walked closely beside Sherlock, much closer than usual, their hands occasionally brushing against each other as they walked. On John’s other side, Rebecca was desperately trying to initiate a conversation with him, flicking her hair suggestively over her shoulder. 

“How unprofessional,” whispered Sherlock, and John quickly supressed a smirk. 

It wasn’t that John was being deliberately unresponsive, he had simply realised that he wasn’t interested in her. To his credit, he didn’t completely blank her, but it was rather difficult to concentrate on what she was saying when the touch of Sherlock’s hands on his sent frissons of excitement down his spine. 

As Rebecca had said, the restaurant really was only a five minute walk away from their B&B, and so they subsequently arrived far too early. Rebecca dragged John off to walk around the harbour, while Sherlock and Lestrade sat on a bench outside the blue and cream exterior of the Harbour Light Restaurant. Sherlock was unaware that he was staring after John until Lestrade mentioned it. 

“You’ve been watching him for a while. Is there something I should know?” 

Sherlock glanced sideways at him and shook his head. “There’s no reason.” 

Lestrade snorted derisively. “Oh pull the other one, Sherlock.” 

The other man decided not to reply, thinking that it would probably be best to wait until after the case before mentioning anything about John and himself. Lestrade opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off by Rebecca and John returning. 

It was now ten to 7, so they entered the restaurant through the already open wooden door and walked up the red, thickly carpeted stairs. At the top of the stairs was a cash desk and two rooms, one on the left, and one on the right. A woman emerged from the room on the left at the sound of their voices. She was about 5’2, with short brown hair pushed away from her face with what appeared to be a headband designed for ten year olds. She wore plain black trousers and a white top and walked with a limp, which Sherlock quickly realised was due to the fact that one of her legs was shorter than the other. 

“Hello, can I help you?” she asked, an unnatural smile creeping onto her face. 

Rebecca stepped forward. “Hi, yes, we’ve got a table booked for four under the name of Brown?”

The other woman checked in the diary on the cash desk. “Oh yes, here you are. Follow me.”

She led the way into the room on the left and to a four-seater table with a view out to the sea. She took their coats and returned with menus, before disappearing behind a partition where a group of young waitresses were standing. 

Sherlock non-conspicuously scanned the room, taking in the three rows of tables, the bar at the opposite end of the room to the partition, the low-hanging ceiling beams and the five other occupied tables. 

A waitress approached them, obviously uncomfortable in her white shirt and apron, black bowtie, black vest and trousers, and Sherlock momentarily pitied her. He conceded that she couldn’t be more than eighteen years old. 

“Good evening,” she said. “Can I get you anything to drink?” 

“I’ll have a pint of lager, please,” said John. 

“Is Peroni okay for you?” 

“Fine, thanks.” 

The waitress hastily wrote it down on her pad of paper, and then turned to Lestrade, who ordered the same drink.

“I’ll just have a glass of water, please,” said Sherlock. “With ice and lemon.” He answered the waitress’ unasked question. 

Rebecca ordered a gin and tonic, and the waitress hurried off to get their drinks, returning a few moments later. She took their food orders; all of them had decided to take advantage of the fact that it was Paignton police force that would be paying for their meals, given that it was, after all, a police investigation. 

“So, how are we going to play this?” Rebecca asked, leaning forwards in her chair once the waitress had taken their menus away. “What’s our strategy?” They all looked to Sherlock, who had his fingers steepled underneath his chin once again. 

“We’ll sit through the meal and act completely normally,” he said. “Observe as best we can, but not be too obvious. Stay for as long as we can without drawing loads of attention, and then, when most of the other customers have gone, I’ll have a little snoop around in their money records.” 

“How do you plan to do that?” Lestrade asked. 

“You’ll create a distraction for me, and I’ll go off for a wander,” replied Sherlock. “It’ll be easy, don’t worry.” He looked over at John and offered him a reassuring smile.  
Thinking about it, it probably hadn’t been the best idea to sit opposite Sherlock, John thought, as he felt the other man’s leg resting carefully against his own. Risky, he thought. Especially given that Rebecca was evidently trying to continue flirting with him on his right hand side. He looked up at Sherlock and realised that everything he was doing was completely intentional. 

“Bastard,” he mouthed across at him, and Sherlock grinned in response.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mysterious death of a man in Devon causes Sherlock, John and Lestrade to be summoned down South. Is it an accident, or is it murder?

The evening passed easily enough: the food was excellent, the service from the waitresses friendly, and the company couldn’t have been better. Even Sherlock, under the guise of acting like a normal person, seemed to enjoy himself. By half past 9, they had eaten their starters and mains and were the only table left in the restaurant. They were currently looking at the large dessert board propped up against the table opposite. There was plenty of choice, and though John was very nearly full to bursting, his usually supressed sweet tooth couldn’t resist a dessert. 

“I’m not sure if I can manage a whole one,” he said, not really to anyone in particular.

“I’ll share one with you,” offered Sherlock, trapping John’s leg with his own once again. 

John nodded his agreement, and they quickly decided on what they wanted. Once more, the young waitress hurried off with their orders and Lestrade leant forwards. “When are you planning on causing this distraction, Sherlock?” 

“Soon,” he assured them. “Rebecca, I’m going to need you to drop a glass or something, and make sure that it shatters. I imagine that the woman who showed us in is the boss, and she probably won’t want any of the girls cleaning up broken glass for health and safety reasons. It helps that two of the waitresses have already been sent home, of course. I’ll need the rest of you to keep her talking whilst I have a look around.” His voice was a low stream of quiet words. “I’ll be just inside the door to the loos before you do it, so she won’t notice me slip off.” 

“It’ll be a bit suspicious if you come back from the wrong direction though, won’t it?” John spoke equally as quietly. 

“I’ll pretend that I had to get something out of my coat pocket, as it’s hung over by the door anyway. It’s not like there’ll be anyone else around to notice,” replied Sherlock. 

“I hope this works,” said Rebecca anxiously, obviously doubting Sherlock’s methods.

Sherlock’ reply was confident, with a hint of arrogance. “Oh it will, trust me.” 

The waitress reappeared, carefully holding one plate in each hand and balancing the other on her forearm. She placed John and Sherlock’s steaming apple pie between them, gave Rebecca her raspberry and white chocolate cheesecake, and handed Lestrade his treacle tart. With a final word of “Enjoy,” she left them to it. 

John had to admit that he did feel slightly strange sharing food with Sherlock, perhaps because he thought it was a very ‘couple-y’ sort of thing to do, or perhaps because it was just Sherlock. The other man, however, took absolutely no notice of John’s sudden awkwardness, or the perplexed stares they were drawing from Lestrade and Rebecca. 

When they were finished, they stacked their plates to make it easier for the waitress to clear them away, and waited for the right moment to carry out their plan. They waited until the one remaining waitress had disappeared between the partition, along with the woman who they presumed to be the boss. Sherlock stood up, excusing himself to go to the loos and Rebecca listened intently for the sound of the door to the loos opening before she dropped her glass onto the wooden floor, ensuring that it shattered immediately into tiny shards. 

“Oh God!” she exclaimed in fake shock, and the boss rushed out. “I’m so, so sorry,” Rebecca apologised profusely. “It just slipped right out of my hand.” 

“It’s not a problem, don’t worry about it.” The unnatural smile was back, John observed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock slip quietly through the door which would lead him towards the cash desk. 

“Karen, get me the dustpan and brush from behind the bar, would you?” 

The waitress – Karen – obliged and swiftly fetched it for her. “Here you go, Jackie,” she said. 

While the smashed glass was being cleared away, Sherlock had successfully gotten behind the cash desk and picked the lock on the cupboard there. The cupboard contained mostly money and wage packets, but there was also a stack of record books there. Sherlock crouched down behind the desk, taking the diary with him, and scanned through all of the books, taking photos on his phone of anything he deemed to be important. 

Sensing that the commotion from the restaurant had significantly quietened down, he quickly replaced everything and got to where his coat was hanging just seconds before Jackie turned around and saw him. Returning to the table, he said, “Thought I’d better check my phone for messages.” This seemed to pacify Jackie, and she stepped back to allow Sherlock to sit down again. John looked up at him questioningly, but he just shook his head minutely. 

“Could we get some coffee, please?” Lestrade asked as a distraction. 

“Of course,” replied Jackie. “Four regular coffees?” 

They all agreed, Sherlock shoved his phone into his pocket, and normal conversation resumed. 

*

At half past ten they left the restaurant, with Sherlock satisfied that he had all the proof that he needed. They walked far away enough from the restaurant to not be seen from the windows and then huddled together while Sherlock shared his information. 

“I found a log of all the money they’re earning, and to be perfectly honest, it did seem a bit extortionate. So I checked the diary on the desk, and, according to that, the amount of customers that they’ve been getting correlates to their income, but some of the entries are non-specific; i.e. they’re not real customers. Also, if they really were getting the amount of customers they say they are, the restaurant would have to be full every single night, which as we’ve seen, is unlikely.” Sherlock passed his phone to Rebecca so she could look at the photographs he had taken. 

“Now,” he continued. “I think it’s unlikely that they’re money laundering by themselves, so we need to look for a relative or a close friend in Italy that is well known by the police there.” He paused. “No, we obviously can’t do anything tonight so I suggest that we all get some rest and then continue with this tomorrow.” 

“I’ll need more evidence before I can sanction an arrest, you realise,” Rebecca said, chewing nervously on her lower lip. 

Sherlock nodded. “Of course. We’ll get that for you.”

“9 o’clock again tomorrow?” Lestrade said, pulling out his phone to set an alarm. 

“Sounds good to me. See you tomorrow.” Rebecca bade them good night, and they went their separate ways.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mysterious death of a man in Devon causes Sherlock, John and Lestrade to be summoned down South. Is it an accident, or is it murder?

John was exhausted by the time they returned to their B&B. Once they entered their room, he went into the bathroom almost immediately and quickly got ready for bed, leaving his clothes on the back of the chair by the window, having decided to sort them out in the morning. Sherlock was in the bathroom when John finally crawled into his bed. Once again, he set the alarm on his phone and was just closing his eyes when he became aware of Sherlock re-entering the room and standing very still. He opened his eyes and found Sherlock staring at him with a rather bizarre expression on his face. John felt a smile spread across his face as he realised what Sherlock wanted. Opening his arms, he said, “Come on then.” 

Sherlock grinned and settled down in the bed beside him, resting his head on John’s chest. John loosely knotted his fingers into Sherlock’s dark curls as the other man tentatively slid a hand around his waist. 

“So are we a couple now then?” John blurted out, unable to refrain from asking the question that had been at the forefront of his mind all day any longer. 

Beside him, Sherlock shifted and propped himself up on an elbow. “Is that what you want?” he asked. 

John nodded slowly. “Do you want it as well?”

“I never thought I would, and I think that if it were anyone else I still wouldn’t. But it’s you, and so I think that yes, I would rather like to be in a relationship with you.” 

John felt his heart swell with delight at Sherlock’s words and moved down in the bed so that they were lying face to face. He tenderly pressed his lips against Sherlock’s, eager to show him how much his words had meant. He felt Sherlock smile against him and shivered in surprise as his hands slipped up under John’s shirt to rest on the toned muscles of his back. Sherlock pressed his body closer to John’s, his kisses suddenly becoming more urgent; desperate even. John briefly wondered how he had gotten so good at kissing if he really didn’t have any experience, but the thought was only fleeting, as he was immersed once again with the taste, smell and feeling of Sherlock. 

*

John felt himself drifting in and out of consciousness, not quite awake, but not quite asleep either, his mind a melange of mismatched thoughts. Even through the fog of his semi-conscious state, he could tell that it was early morning – probably about 3 or 4am judging from the distinct lack of light filtering through his eyelids. He was aware of an unusual amount of warmth behind him, and the weight of an arm draped really quite protectively over his waist. He vaguely remembered the dream he had had a few nights ago; the dream that had prompted this entire scenario. Except this time it was real, and Sherlock really was sharing his bed with him. It was his hand splayed out on John’s hip, his leg pressing against the back of John’s, his body heat that was radiating from his body and warming John seemingly from the inside out. 

Sherlock shifted, resting his forehead between John’s shoulder blades. John leant back against him as he felt the welcoming blackness of sleep claim him again. 

*

Sherlock woke up to John’s alarm going off. His brain still sleep-addled, he reached over John’s still-sleeping form and quickly turned it off, reluctant to get up. He didn’t care if they over-slept: the restaurant wasn’t going anywhere, and Rebecca surely had plenty of other things to do that didn’t involve himself of John.   
John.

Sherlock looked down at him, still blissfully asleep in his arms. How his heart ached at the unexpected thought of John ever leaving him. It didn’t bear thinking about. Sherlock lay back down in the bed and kissed John on the cheek. Closing his eyes, he settled back into the pillows, and John rolled over into his arms. I could get used to this, he thought. 

Time passed with the languid pace of John’s easy breaths. Sherlock must have fallen asleep again, he realised, as the next thing he was aware of was his phone ringing and someone banging on the door. He looked at his phone and saw that it was half past eight and that he had two missed calls from Lestrade.

Unwillingly getting out of bed, he stole across the room to the door and opened it. Lestrade was leaning against the doorframe. 

“Answer your bloody phone, would you?” he said. 

“I was asleep.” 

“It’s half past eight. Shouldn’t you have been up ages ago?” He shook his head despairingly. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter anyway. Rebecca phoned me this morning saying not to come in at nine because she’s been called into a meeting with some other DI’s so she’s not available.” Lestrade peered past Sherlock into the room. “Were you actually planning to get up at all?” 

“We both accidentally slept through the alarm,” Sherlock lied. He abruptly realised that Lestrade had noticed the fact that Sherlock’s single bed had blatantly not been in slept in last night. “It’s not what it looks like.” 

Lestrade’s eyebrows practically shot up into his hair. “I’m not going to ask you to explain but…are you sleeping together?” 

“In the sense that we shared a bed last night, yes.”

“Oh so you weren’t…” Lestrade trailed off, not wanting to finish his train of thought. “Are you a couple then?” 

Sherlock nodded his head briefly. 

“Can I come in?” 

Sherlock stepped back to let him into the room and then moved over to the kettle to make a cup of tea. John was still in bed, but he had pulled the duvet up over his head, so Sherlock assumed that he was awake. Lestrade sat down in the chair by the window while Sherlock waited for the kettle to boil. Lestrade declined the offer of tea, so Sherlock made a mug for himself and John. When he was done, he moved over to the bed and rubbed John gently on the shoulder. 

“John, wake up. I’ve made you tea and Lestrade’s here.” Sherlock dutifully ignored Lestrade. 

John emerged from the duvet and sat up, looking anxiously between Sherlock and Lestrade, but taking the mug of tea. 

“Oh don’t worry about me,” said Lestrade, waving his hand dismissively. “Everyone at the Yard has been thinking that you two have been…together for ages now.” 

John almost choked on his tea but stifled it. “So I heard that we’re not going to meet Rebecca at nine?” 

“No,” Lestrade agreed. “She’s going to call me when she’s free, and we can go in then, but otherwise we’re free to do what we want for the day. Do you have any plans?” 

Sherlock shook his head. “Not particularly.” He glanced over at John who shook his head, although there was a hint of deep desire nestling behind his warm brown eyes, unnoticeable to anyone but Sherlock. 

Lestrade pointedly cleared his throat, breaking the look between Sherlock and John. “Well, I’m going to head over to Torquay and have a look around. I’ll leave you two to it.” There was a suggestive tone in his words which made Sherlock’s lips twitch in a small smile. Lestrade left the room and Sherlock moved closer to John, placing his mug of tea on the bedside cabinet. 

“You could have been a little more subtle,” said John, mimicking his action. 

“Sorry.” Sherlock’s lips twitched again. “Are you okay? Did you sleep alright?” 

“Fine. You’re surprisingly affectionate in your sleep.”

“Ah.” Sherlock grimaced and John laughed, stretching up to plant a soft kiss on Sherlock’s cheek.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mysterious death of a man in Devon causes Sherlock, John and Lestrade to be summoned down South. Is it an accident, or is it murder?

Greg Lestrade sat tucked away in the corner of Costa Coffee, a half empty mug of cappuccino in front of him. He must have looked a sorry state, he thought, given that he was apparently all alone around a table designed for four, and that he looked exceptionally bored. He glanced briefly at his watch to check the time and saw that it was a quarter past twelve; Sherlock and John were fifteen minutes late. He sighed heavily, momentarily wondering what on earth they were doing, and then hastily pushed the thought away at the memory of that morning. He contemplated the fact that Sherlock and John were finally together – an actual couple, and couldn’t help but feel surprised at Sherlock showing any affection for anyone at all. But then again, it was John whom he cared for, and everyone could see that he was very dear to Sherlock. Lestrade made a mental note to wish them happiness in their future together as he looked up and saw them enter the café. 

“You’re late,” he said, by way of greeting. 

“Sorry,” John apologised. “Sherlock got side-tracked by the grab-machines at the arcade.” He pulled up a chair and sat down, shrugging his coat off as he did so. 

“Thought you were in Torquay?” asked Sherlock, also taking a seat. 

Lestrade took a sip of his cappuccino. “I was, but I got a bit bored and was just heading back when Rebecca called. She wanted to get out of the office and suggested we meet here.” He threw his watch another glance. “She should be here soon.” 

They lapsed into a silence which was broken a few minutes later by John’s announcement that he was going to buy a drink. “Do you want anything?” He directed his question at Sherlock. 

“Medium flat white, no sugar, and can you get me something to eat, please? Not bothered what.” 

“Sure.” John disappeared to wait in the queue, noticing Rebecca arriving as he did so and greeting her with a smile. “Do you want a drink?” 

She returned the smile. “An Americano with milk would be much appreciated, thank you.” She waited with him in the line. 

“How was the meeting?” John enquired, more out of politeness than genuine interest, but she thankfully didn’t pick up on that fact. Being around Sherlock all the time definitely had its benefits. 

“Oh, dull. It didn’t last too long but then I had to speak to my Superintendent about the case and go through some of the reports I’d written up…” She trailed off as John thanked the barista and picked up the tray with their food and drink on. She followed him over to the table and greeted Sherlock and Lestrade cheerfully. 

John handed Sherlock and Rebecca their drinks and nudged a blueberry muffin across the table at Sherlock, who absently took it and began to pick at it. 

“Sherlock, I need more proof than the photographs you took if I am to order the arrest of Jackie Chappell. How are you going to get it for me?” Rebecca asked. 

“I’m going to break into the Harbour Light Restaurant.” 

*

Rebecca had been unimpressed with Sherlock’s plan of breaking into the restaurant, but after a hushed conversation with Lestrade, she grudgingly agreed to let him do it. John sighed as they left Costa and walked down to the restaurant, idly wondering just how many more rules there were left for him and Sherlock to break. They reached the restaurant and Lestrade and Rebecca kept watch outside the door whilst Sherlock picked the lock on the employee-access door with terrifying accuracy. 

“I’m coming in with you,” said Rebecca, hearing the lock click open satisfyingly. 

“No,” Sherlock responded. “It would be better if you and Lestrade stayed outside. John and I will go in.” 

Rebecca flashed Lestrade a fleeting look, but he merely shook his head in response, and Rebecca resigned herself to knowing that, even though it was technically her investigation, Lestrade would keep favouring Sherlock over her. 

John followed Sherlock through the doorway and found himself in the store room. Lestrade pulled the door back so that it looked closed, and the light quickly disappeared. Sherlock handed John a pair of rubber gloved and then moved over to the other side of the room, waving his hand to indicate that John should look around too. After one or two minutes, and finding nothing, Sherlock led the way upstairs, his footsteps echoing sharply on the wooden stairs. 

Upon reaching the top of the stairs, they found themselves in the kitchen. John branched off from Sherlock to poke around the pantry, while the other man looked through the collection of stray bits of paper by the phone on the wall. 

“Anything?” John asked, breaking the silence. 

“Nothing, you?” 

“Nothing.” 

John returned to Sherlock’s side, joining him in sifting through the paper. “Hang on, Sherlock, look at this.” Something had caught his eye. He picked up a yellow sticky note with a phone number scrawled on it and the name Graham Hills underneath. 

Sherlock took the note out of his hand and brushed his fingers against the ink. “That’s an Italian phone number, but I think it’s highly unlikely that Mr Hills is Italian himself with a name like that...” He flipped the sticky note over and heaved a sigh at the blank back of it. Pulling out his phone, he texted Lestrade to get him to investigate Graham Hills and pocketed the sticky note. “Keep looking,” he said to John. 

*

Ten minutes later, and they re-appeared at the door. Rebecca was on the phone to a member of her team who was looking into Graham Hills for her. Sherlock tapped his foot impatiently whilst he waited for her to finish her call. 

“Graham Hills, aged 53, lives in Italy, cousin of Jackie and Alexander Chappell who are co-owners of this restaurant. He runs a yachting club over in Italy and is rather well-off,” Rebecca announced as she returned to the group. 

“A yachting club,” Sherlock murmured. “Oh, yes, it’s all making sense now.” 

“Is it?” asked John, voicing the general feeling of Rebecca and Lestrade with his words. 

“Of course it is.” He sighed exasperatedly at the distinct look of understanding on his companions face. “The restaurant is struggling because they aren’t getting enough customers, so they turn to their rich cousin who lives in Italy for help. He agrees to help them and gives them money, which they legalise by saying that they’re getting more customers than they actually are. The question is, how is he so rich just from running a yachting club?” 

“Hang on,” said Lestrade, evidently still confused. “How do you know the restaurant’s struggling?”

Sherlock rooted around in his coat pocket and pulled out a page which had evidently been torn from an accounts book. “Look here,” he passed it to Lestrade. “This is from a month ago, and you can clearly see that their expenditure is far higher than their income, but all of a sudden it balances out; they’re getting more money from somewhere but it can’t be from more customers-”

“Because it’s after the summer season and it makes no sense,” John finished for him. 

Sherlock beamed.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mysterious death of a man in Devon causes Sherlock, John and Lestrade to be summoned down South. Is it an accident, or is it murder?

Back at the police station, John sipped at a coffee from the dispensing machine by Rebecca’s office. Sherlock, Lestrade and Rebecca were busy talking; phoning people, filling out forms, ordering arrests and the likes of, and John had felt distinctly out of place and out of the action watching them throw their metaphorical weight around. Even Sherlock, who was supposedly not connected to the police in any way, elicited a surprising amount of respect from the sergeants. 

John sat back in the cold, hard plastic chair in the corridor and took another sip of his coffee. He pulled a face at the bitterness of it and forced himself to swallow it. Leaning his head back against the blank wall, his thoughts wandered to Sherlock, last night, that morning, Lestrade finding out… Faint pink spots appeared on his cheeks and he took another swig of coffee, immediately regretting it. As John closed his eyes, Sherlock’s face swam into view behind his eyelids. His pale skin and sharp eyes, lips pursed into a tight line, but breaking into a gentle smile as he turned towards John, his features softening… John remembered how it had felt to be curled around Sherlock in bed, to feel rest his head on his chest and listen to his heartbeat. The memory of waking up at some unearthly hour to find Sherlock completely sprawled out across him curved John’s lips up into a smile. 

He heard footsteps approach him and opened his eyes just as Sherlock sat down in the chair next to him, taking his hand in his. 

“Are you okay?” Sherlock asked, his thumb tracing a soothing pattern on the back of John’s hand. 

“Fine. How’s it going?” 

A sigh. “Tedious. Hence why I’m out here.” He offered John a lopsided smile. “Rebecca has authorised the arrest of Jackie and Alexander Chappell, now we just have to wait for them to be brought in.” 

“Can’t we go along for the arrests?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I already tried that one. According to the Chief Superintendent, it’s not really our place.” 

John raised his eyebrows. “You spoke to the Chief Superintendent?” 

“Yes,” replied Sherlock slowly. “That’s what I just said.”

“You didn’t offend him or anything did you?”

Sherlock didn’t reply. 

“Sherlock…” There was a warning note in John’s voice. 

“I might have, aggravated, him a little bit.” 

John tried to stay angry, but he just couldn’t maintain it. He burst into a fit of uncontrollable giggles, and soon both he and Sherlock were clutching at their stomachs, chests aching from laughing so hard. 

“You’re hopeless!” John exclaimed once they had both caught their breath back.

Sherlock chuckled breathily in response, looking up as Lestrade and Rebecca approached them both. They must have looked bizarre: two men, bodies angled towards each other, cheeks flushed from laughing and hands loosely linked. Rebecca’s eyes widened in understanding but she said nothing. Lestrade gave them a smug smile. 

“What’s so funny?” Rebecca asked while Lestrade sat down on Sherlock’s either side. 

“Oh, just Sherlock being an idiot,” replied John idly, making no attempt to let go of Sherlock’s hand. 

“Right.” She stood a little taller and straightened her shirt. “Alexander Chappell has been arrested and is being brought in as we speak. Jackie is going to take a little while longer as she lives in Exeter, but we’re tracking her mobile so I’m confident we’ll pick her up soon.”

“I want to interview them,” said Sherlock. 

Rebecca chewed anxiously on her lower lip. “Sherlock, I appreciate your work on this but I don’t really think-”

Lestrade cut her off. “You’ll never get a proper confession out of them if you don’t let Sherlock at least try. You brought us down here to help, so let us.” 

She considered for a moment, eyes slightly squinted in thought and frown lines apparent on her forehead. Eventually she nodded her agreement. “Okay.”

*

It took another hour before Sherlock and John were allowed to interview Jackie and Alexander Chappell, and they had spent the time sipping at vile coffee and trying to sit comfortably in the god-awful plastic chairs in the hallway. The Chief Superintendent – who had introduced himself to John as Robert Marshall – had insisted that both he and Rebecca were also present, despite Sherlock’s protests that their presence would be counter-productive. 

Robert led the way downstairs to the interrogation rooms, plainly ignoring the sounds of Sherlock grumbling about lack of trust and ‘bloody police’ as he followed him. Robert pushed open the door to the room and Sherlock gave it a cursory sweep, noting the harsh white walls, ceiling and floor, and the table placed in the centre of the room with six chairs around it, three of which were occupied by Jackie and Alexander Chappell and their lawyer. 

Sherlock, Rebecca and Robert took the remaining three chairs, and John stood behind Sherlock, arms folded across his chest. Behind them, the door closed and another police officer stood guard by it. 

Rebecca cleared her throat and began to talk. “Mr and Ms Chappell, you are in police custody because we believe that you are guilty of money laundering through the Harbour Light Restaurant, with the assistance of your cousin, Mr Hills, who runs a yachting club in Italy. We also have reason to believe that you are connected to the death of Mr Amato Dicello, an Italian police officer who was undercover at Dartmouth Naval College.” 

The Chappell’s lawyer leant forwards in his chair, resting his elbows on the desk in front of him. “And what proof do you have for that?” He was a short man, shorter than John, with a sparse amount of greying hair on his head. His eyes were dark, deep-set, and lined with wrinkles and his expression was one of extreme distaste. 

“We have plenty of proof,” said Sherlock darkly, prompting the lawyer to turn his attention to the enigmatic man sitting diagonally across from him. 

“Who exactly are you? You’re not police.” 

“Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective,” Sherlock replied. Indicating John, he said, “And this is my colleague, Doctor John Watson.”

“Consulting detective,” the lawyer sneered. “What does that entail?”

“Exactly what it says on the tin. I am a detective with whom the police consult.” 

John hastily stifled a laugh. Robert shot him a disparaging look. 

The lawyer spoke again. “My clients have reason to believe that you visited their restaurant last night. Can you confirm this?” 

“Yes, Detective Inspector Brown came to me requesting an undercover investigation at the Harbour Light Restaurant involving herself, Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson and Detective Inspector Lestrade. I granted her permission to carry out this investigation,” said Robert. 

“I’m afraid your money laundering days are over,” Sherlock said quietly, addressing Jackie and Alexander directly. 

Robert flashed a puzzled look at John, but the other man merely shook his head in response and mouthed, “Trust him.” 

Jackie spluttered at Sherlock’s words and John smiled, knowing that she had been caught out.

“As I said before,” said the lawyer, looking distinctly less confident now. “You have no proof.” 

“Don’t we?” Rebecca slid a file of printed out enlarged versions of the photos Sherlock had taken across the table to them. 

Jackie, Alexander and their lawyer took it in turns to look through the photographs before the lawyer said, “This proves nothing.”

“Yes it does.” Sherlock came to life suddenly, a spark of excitement in his eyes. “We have access to your income and what you’re declaring doesn’t match up at all. It doesn’t take a genius to figure that out.” His lips twitched into a small smile. “We found the details of Mr Hills by the phone in the kitchen of your restaurant, so we did a bit of research and it turns out that he’s a very wealthy man, far too wealthy for it to be just from his business. Rich man in Italy who has access to boats? I’d say he helps illegal immigrants to enter into mainland Europe.” 

Jackie and Alexander stared at him. 

“How did you…?” Rebecca began, but Sherlock waved a dismissive hand.

“It was the obvious conclusion.” He leant further towards Jackie and Alexander. “But I’m right, aren’t I?” 

Meaningful glances were shared between the three people on the opposite side of the table, and eventually Alexander nodded. “Yes. We never meant to get caught up in all of it, but we were desperate, and Graham offered to help us. We had no choice.” 

“Everything is a choice,” Sherlock snarled. “So you found out that Dicello was investigating you and Hills and you couldn’t risk getting caught?”

Jackie and Alexander both nodded. 

“And you thought that killing him would be the best option?” asked John disbelievingly. 

“It was an accident,” murmured Jackie, her eyes focused on her clasped hands. “He came into the restaurant and started poking around; asking us questions. Alexander got angry and…and…” 

“And strangled him,” Rebecca finished. She turned to look at Robert. “There’s our admission.”

He nodded in response and motioned for John and Sherlock to leave. They exited the room and were met by Lestrade in the corridor. 

“I watched the whole thing on the recording. Good job, Sherlock. You too, John.” Lestrade shook both their hands. “We’ll wait here for them to finish up, tie up any loose ends and then head back to the B&B. I’ll book a train back to London for tomorrow morning.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mysterious death of a man in Devon causes Sherlock, John and Lestrade to be summoned down South. Is it an accident, or is it murder?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank the incredibly talented SamanthaJ221, who kindly let me use some lyrics from her song ‘Heart on Fire’ in this chapter, and also whose music got me through my recent case of writer’s block. Here’s a link to her tumblr, where you’ll find links to her amazing music: http://timelordsandarmydoctors.tumblr.com/  
> Hope you all enjoy the chapter! BP x

The Commodore B&B, 8:32pm

Sherlock held open the door to their room, waiting until John had brushed past him and collapsed onto the bed before letting the door swing shut. They had just returned from another meal out at ‘Talk of the Town’ after Lestrade’s insistence that they needed to have at least one decent meal. 

John had already kicked off his shoes by the time Sherlock sat down on the bed beside him. “Another case closed,” he said with a sigh. “And tomorrow we can go home.” The word rolled off his tongue with ease; 221B Baker Street was certainly more his home than any other place ever had been. Living with Sherlock as his flatmate, his colleague, his best friend, and now his lover felt right and normal in a way that it probably shouldn’t. Of course, there were times that they had their disagreements; when Sherlock left a decomposing arm in the bath, or used John’s clothes for experiments, for example, but John had accepted Sherlock’s eccentricities as being part of the man who he admired and cared for. He had grown accustomed to the midnight concerto’s, the lack of food in the flat and the conversion of the kitchen into a laboratory, and now his heart ached with a desire to go home to his and Sherlock’s warped normality. 

Sherlock removed his shoes and shrugged his jacket off of his shoulders, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on John. “What are you thinking about?” He asked eventually.   
John smiled gently. “Our home, and us.” 

“What about us?” Sherlock folded his impossibly long legs up underneath him and turned so that he was facing John. 

“How much things have changed since living with you.” He exhaled a long breath. “I hadn’t felt alive in years before I met you. It was like I was just falling through the atmosphere, without any direction and with no idea as to what I was going to do. I was home from Afghanistan, and I was safe, and I knew that, but the memories still survived and in the night they came back to life. I thought that I was permanently broken by the war, my hands shook, and my limp was awful, and then I ran after you chasing a cab halfway round London and it stopped and…” He trailed off and Sherlock placed a finger over John’s lips. 

“John,” he murmured, his fingertips skimming down John’s lips to trace the line of his jaw. John heard, for the first time, raw emotion in Sherlock’s voice, choking him, his eyes soft and filling with tears. 

“Sherlock are you crying?” John watched the tears slide down his cheeks, leaving glistening tracks that shone in the light. 

Sherlock sniffed and wiped at his eyes, almost scowling at the drop moisture on his hand. “I suppose I am. I feel like there’s a weight pressing down on my heart, and it beats a little faster when I think of you, when I see you…” 

John chuckled. “That’s what it feels like to love someone.”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, processing this new information in his incredible brain. “I love you, John.” He spoke slowly, savouring each word as they slipped off his tongue, his eyes burning with emotion. 

“I love you too, Sherlock,” said John. “Now come here, you insufferable idiot.” He pulled Sherlock closer to him, pressing their lips together in a heated kiss as they fell back onto the bed. John ran his hands up Sherlock’s back to knot into his hair as Sherlock flicked his tongue across John’s lips, parting them and sliding his tongue into his mouth. John didn’t know where Sherlock had got this sudden confidence and ability from, but he certainly wasn’t complaining. Sherlock slipped his hand up under John’s shirt, tracing the planes of his chest with his elegant fingers and making John sigh into his mouth. John pulled Sherlock closer, bringing him down on top of him and tightening his hold on Sherlock’s hair. 

Sherlock responded by delivering hot kisses on John’s neck, lightly taking some of the soft skin into his mouth and sucking on it, leaving a dark purple mark where his lips had been. John brought Sherlock’s lips back to his, kissing him harder, twining his tongue with Sherlock’s, relishing in the feeling of the other man moaning deep and low against him. Sherlock moved so that he was on his back and John was on top of him, his hands exploring under his shirt and then dropping down to the waistband of his jeans, sliding lower, John hissing in surprise and pleasure. 

“Sherlock!” His name was called from the other side of the door, accompanied by a sharp knock. 

“Damn it,” John muttered as Sherlock slid out from underneath him. He rearranged his shirt and switched the television on as Sherlock opened the door. 

Lestrade walked in, taking his usual seat in the chair by the window. “The train’s booked for half nine tomorrow morning. I would like to be at the train station by quarter past at the latest so make sure you don’t sleep through your alarm again.” He gave Sherlock a pointed look and then quirked an eyebrow at him, apparently only just noticing that Sherlock looked significantly more ruffled than normal. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No,” said John, a little too quickly. 

Lestrade seemed unconvinced but said nothing about it, choosing instead to continue talking about their journey home. “I’ll meet you downstairs for breakfast at 8 o’clock in the morning, and yes, I demand that you both have something to eat.”

Sherlock muttered something under his breath, but Lestrade and John both chose to ignore it. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow. Err, sleep well.” Lestrade bade them goodnight and left their room. 

As soon as he had left, Sherlock was back next to John on the bed, crushing his lips against John’s and his fingers making quick work of John’s shirt. 

“Sherlock,” John said, laughing breathlessly between kisses. “Calm down.”

Sherlock drew away to say, “I want you,” before returning to kissing him heatedly again. 

“Now?”

“Yes. Right now.” He pushed John back onto the bed and hovered over him. “I know you want it too.” 

John smiled, slowly working Sherlock’s shirt open. “Correct, as always.” With that, he drew Sherlock down into his arms once again.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mysterious death of a man in Devon causes Sherlock, John and Lestrade to be summoned down South. Is it an accident, or is it murder?

By 9 o’clock the following morning, Sherlock, John and Lestrade were sat on the platform of Paignton train station sipping take-away coffees in a companionable silence. Rebecca had driven to the B&B to say goodbye and to thank them for their help, and also to give Sherlock and John her best wishes. Sherlock had given her a forced smile, but John had kissed her on the cheek and whispered a few words in her ear; Sherlock heard ‘beautiful woman’ and ‘someone special’ and assumed that John was trying to reassure her. Lestrade had promised that he would keep in touch with Rebecca, although Sherlock deduced that he probably would be unlikely to maintain that promise.  
The train arrived, surprisingly, on time, and the three men boarded, stowing their luggage and then taking their seats where they, once again, had a table. Sherlock folded his knees up to his chest and slipped his hand into John’s, giving it a gentle squeeze as he offered him a sideways smile. 

Lestrade raised an eyebrow, desperately wanting to ask them when they had started their relationship and who had started it, and was Sherlock actually capable of having a relationship? 

“I brought it up,” said Sherlock, his eyes fixed on Lestrade’s face. 

“What?” Lestrade stared straight back at Sherlock, wondering if the other man really could read his mind. 

“John and I,” Sherlock clarified. “You’ve got questions that you’re dying to know the answers to.”

“Damn it, Sherlock, right as always.” Lestrade sighed and the train pulled out of the station. “Forgive me for intruding on something that is none of my business, but I have to say that I never imagined you in a relationship, Sherlock.” 

“It’s okay, I never imagined it either.” Sherlock lowered his voice, sensing that people around them were listening in on their conversation. 

“But John is different?” Lestrade prompted, his curiosity getting the better of him. 

John cleared his throat as if to remind them that he was still there. “My hearing is as good as it ever was, thank you.” 

“I’m sorry, John, it’s just… Everyone at the Yard’s been talking about you two since the second you arrived on the scene. And, I mean, this is Sherlock we’re talking about here.” 

If Sherlock was offended, he certainly didn’t show it. He was fully aware of what people thought of him; of his supposed incapability of caring for anything other than his work and his sociopathic tendencies. It was also true that Sherlock had labelled himself as a sociopath, resigning himself to a life of loneliness but convincing himself that something as mundane and common as love was far too human for him. He had honestly believed that he was not capable of loving someone. But then John came along. 

John.

Caring, thoughtful, human, John. John who was currently sitting next to him, running the pads of his fingers over the back of Sherlock’s hand.

“I know it’s hard for you to understand, Greg,” John was saying, “But he does have a heart, and he has shown it; perhaps not to you, but definitely to me, and I love him for that, exactly how he is.” 

Lestrade smiled, leaning across the table to clap John on the shoulder. “I’m very happy for you both, really.” 

When Sherlock smiled it was not forced like it had been for Rebecca, but a real, genuine smile of actual happiness and he gave John’s hand another squeeze. 

“If you don’t mind,” said John, “Please don’t tell anyone else at the Yard. I think we’d rather do that ourselves.” He cast a look towards Sherlock, who nodded his agreement.

“Of course,” Lestrade replied. 

*

The rest of the train journey passed slowly. At some point, John nodded off to sleep, his head resting on Sherlock’s shoulder. Lestrade was so engrossed in his book that it took him a good half hour to notice, and when he did, his gaze immediately flickered over to Sherlock, who seemed quite content to allow John to remain exactly where he was. John slept for about an hour, waking up to find Sherlock and Lestrade in the middle of a game of Blackjack, which Sherlock had impressively managed to play without disturbing John’s position. 

“Feeling any better?” Sherlock asked John. “Twist,” he said to Lestrade, who handed him another card. 

“Hm?” John rubbed his eyes sleepily. “Oh yes, I suppose.” 

“That’s good,” replied Sherlock absently. “I’ll stick with that.” 

Lestrade and Sherlock turned over their cards. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock had won with the Queen of diamonds, the six of clubs and the five of spades. Lestrade sighed as he shuffled the cards. 

“Greg, have you won any games yet?” John asked, already guessing at the answer. Greg chose not to reply, and John assumed that his lack of response meant that his answer was ‘no’. 

The three men continued to play cards until the train pulled into Paddington station, breaking the silence with occasional exclamations of swear words or laughter. Once they had exited the station, Sherlock hailed a cab and climbed into the back, leaving John and Lestrade to put their bags into the boot. 

“Baker Street,” said Sherlock when John and Lestrade had joined him, and the cab pulled away. 

Sherlock was glad to be returning home to the flat, but, at the same time, was nervous due to the unwanted worry that his and John’s relationship may change again, and Sherlock didn’t want that at all. He pushed the thoughts out of his head as the cab arrived at Baker Street, and Sherlock and John climbed out. 

“Thanks again,” called Lestrade as they pulled their bags out of the boot. “I’ll call you when I need you.” 

Sherlock and John waved goodbye to him, before turning and unlocking the door to 221B. They were greeted in the hallway by Mrs Hudson, who seemed very glad to have them back.   
“It’s just been too quiet without you two clattering around and shooting holes in my walls.” She smiled fondly. 

“It’s good to be back, Mrs Hudson,” said John, following Sherlock up the stairs into their flat. He caught Sherlock by the elbow before he could go into his room. “Sherlock…stay in my room tonight?” 

“Why can’t we stay in mine? It’s closer.”

“It’s also more likely to be a biohazard.” 

Sherlock grinned. “You’re probably right. Okay, your room it is, but I want to talk about something first.” 

John rolled his eyes. “Oh God, is this ‘the talk’?” He paused. “Okay, let’s unpack and then I’ll fix us some tea and we can talk.” 

Sherlock murmured his agreement and they went into their separate rooms, reconvening in the living room just under ten minutes later. John set about boiling the kettle and rooting around in the cupboards for something to eat, before eventually conceding that it was probably safer to stick to toast. When he was finished, he wandered back into the living room, carrying two steaming mugs of tea, and somehow balancing a plate piled high with toast on his left arm. Sherlock relieved him of one mug and the plate so that John could sit down.

“So…” said John, munching his way through a slice of toast. 

“Mmm,” came Sherlock’s reply. “John, I want you to know that I’m really not very good at expressing how I feel, or saying what I want, but I have never, ever felt the way I feel about you before.” He inched closer to John, his mug of tea discarded on the coffee table. John put down the plate and his own mug before Sherlock continued. “I love, Doctor John Watson, more than anything in the world. I feel…complete when you are with me; you make me happier than I have ever been in my entire life, and the thought of continuing to live without you is frankly unbearable.” He stopped talking, searching John’s face for some kind of response. 

John smiled. “I have the overwhelming urge to kiss you right now,” he said, pulling Sherlock into his arms and crushing their lips together, his tongue flicking at Sherlock’s mouth until he parted his lips and allowed John’s tongue to twine with his. He pulled him back onto the sofa, their legs tangling as John’s hands ran up to Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s chest, sliding over his back and bringing his body closer. Every thought in his overactive brain had been replaced with John and want and need. 

Sherlock pulled away, gasping for breath, his cheeks flushed and lips red from the kissing. “John,” he breathed. “Do you think it was meant to end up like this, or was it all some kind of accident?” He indicated the way their bodies were wrapped around each other.

John pressed another kiss to Sherlock’s lips. “Call it an accident, call it whatever you want, personally I believe that it was fate.” 

Sherlock grinned at that, stretching up to kiss him again. “I love you, John Watson.”

“I love you too, Sherlock Holmes.”

THE END.


End file.
